


get me a prescription for that one perfect touch

by jugheadjones



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Chills, Fever, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, Hair Washing, M/M, Self-Indulgent, Sickfic, literally nothing but fluff and goop, little bit more sweat, little bit more vomit, this has finally outperformed the rest as my most self indulgent work to date
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 06:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15358242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jugheadjones/pseuds/jugheadjones
Summary: I've had a sequel toKim's ficrattling around in my head all day, and I decided to finally put it down. Hers is better. I just wanted more sick, soppy boys.Fred has the flu. Fp's taking care of him.





	get me a prescription for that one perfect touch

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [just won't quit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15342657) by [bewareoftrips](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bewareoftrips/pseuds/bewareoftrips). 



> Makes so much more sense if you read Kim's first.

FP wakes up to the feeling of Fred shivering in his arms. 

It’s already dim outside the window, so they must have missed the rest of the school day. Fred’s laying on his side with his back pressed up against FP’s chest, pinning one of FP’s arms flat to the mattress under his body weight. FP groans softly as he shifts and feels pins and needles run from his elbow to his fingertips.

Ignoring the numbness of his arm - for someone so skinny, Fred’s deadweight was a lot - he pushes himself up a bit so he can see Fred’s face. His friend’s eyes are closed tight, his breath quivering in short, uneven bursts as he trembles with a cold FP can’t feel. FP rolls Fred over to face him, wrapping his arms tighter around him in an effort to quell the chills that are running through Fred’s body. 

“You should g-go,” Fred stammers into his shirt. FP cups the back of his head, running his fingers through Fred’s tangled, greasy hair, and coos softly to him. 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Fred’s voice takes on a stubborn edge, only weakened somewhat by the clacking of his teeth. “You’re g-going to get s-sick.” 

“Ssh,” FP whispers into Fred’s hair, tugging the crumpled duvet up higher so that it covers his friend up to his chin. “Here you go, buddy. Warm up.” 

He wraps Fred up in a bear hug again. Despite the chills running through him, Fred’s skin is still warm to the touch, radiating sticky heat like an oven. Fred squirms lower in his arms as he rolls over to face the wall again, and FP nuzzles into the back of his hot neck. 

“I told you,” he murmurs into Fred’s skin, pressing a kiss to the nape. “I want the flu. You’re not going to spare me by facing the other way.” 

No answer. Fred’s gone floppy and limp against his chest, so FP figures he’s asleep. Pulling Fred in so that their bodies slot together perfectly, FP rests his chin on his sweaty shoulder and closes his eyes. After about ten minutes, Fred stops shivering and relaxes. 

He’s almost drifting off when Fred abruptly goes tense in his arms. FP sits up a little to see what’s going on, but Fred’s already scooting out of his embrace and pulling himself over to the side of the bed. 

Clawing messily through his long hair to hold it out of the way, Fred doubles over the edge of the mattress, vomiting loudly. FP tries to remember if he’d had the good sense to shove the trash can over on that side.

He reaches out and places a comforting hand on the small of Fred’s bare back, but Fred brushes him off before lurching over into another heave. This one sounds a lot drier and a lot less productive than the first. FP winces in sympathy. 

Helpless to keep it from happening, FP pulls himself into a sitting position and gently tugs Fred’s sweaty hair back off his neck, twisting the damp strands into a semi-braid as Fred spits out the last of yesterday’s breakfast. He risks a glance between Fred’s legs and is relieved to see Fred’s managed to get the whole mess contained in his bedside trash can. 

“Nice aim,” he comments. 

“Let’s hope it gets me a spot on the basketball team,” Fred jokes weakly, slipping out of bed to pick up the bucket. He groans, rubbing his temple with one hand. The few hairs that have escaped the braid are sticking up around his face with sweat. “You should really go. Trust me. You don’t want to feel this bad.” 

“Where are you going?” FP asks as Fred starts for the door. 

“To rinse this out.” 

FP climbs off the bed to intercept him, and Fred steps back. “It’s fine, F.” 

“No, you don’t,” FP says, reaching for the bucket. “Let me do it.” 

Fred pulls away from him so that the contents of the trash can slosh ominously. FP gives him his best sour face. 

“Dude if you spill that, I’m not helping you.”

Fred caves and hands him the bucket. “Just use the bathtub,” he mumbles, sinking back onto the bed and tugging the sheets back up around him. Even the small motion seems to have tired him out. “I’m going back to bed.”

FP carries it down the stairs to the outside faucet anyway. He remembers just in the nick of time that he’s not wearing pants, and steps back into his jeans and shoes. Crouching at the side of the house, shivering in the winter air, he rinses out the bucket at the hose. Fred hadn’t had much to bring up. 

Fp nibbles his lip, wondering if he should be forcing some food into him. Weren’t you supposed to starve a cold and feed a fever? Or was it the other way around? 

He compromises by bringing Fred a glass of water from the kitchen. Fred takes a long drink when FP hands it to him and then pulls needily on FP’s belt loops. 

“Get back in here.” 

FP slips obediently back under the covers, leaving the bucket on the floor. “Mmmm,” Fred sighs happily, nuzzling up against his chest. FP’s skin is cool from the winter air. “You’re cold.” 

FP presses a hand to Fred’s forehead. “You’re hot.” Gently slipping a hand around to the back of Fred’s shoulder blades, he rubs the feverish skin in slow circles. “Do you feel better after that?” 

“A little. Better than earlier.” Fred’s head sags down with the weight of FP’s hand on his back. His sweaty brow presses against FP’s chest. “Still sleepy. I missed the tryouts, didn’t I?” 

“Freddie.” Fred doesn’t reply, and FP nudges him gently. “I think I should take your temperature and give you medicine and stuff.” 

Fred makes a tired  _ mmph _ noise that isn’t quite agreement. FP guides his head back on the pillow before he leans over and smooches him quickly on the lips. Fred’s eyes fly open. 

“What was that?” 

FP grins. “Taking your temperature.” He lowers his face close to Fred’s until their noses bump, nuzzling into his hair and planting ticklish kisses to his damp forehead. Fred grins into his throat. “I’m worried Alice’s rest and fluids aren’t gonna cut it.” 

“Alice knows what she’s talking about.” His voice is hoarse from his technicolour yawn. If FP hadn’t just watched him do it, it would have been cute. 

“Alice can’t even keep a houseplant alive,” he points out. 

“Fair point.” Fred’s eyes are closing again, the soft little smile still on his lips. “I don’t think we have anything in the house.” 

FP kisses him on the forehead again. “Let me go see.” 

He takes a flight of stairs down to poke around in the second-floor medicine cabinets. All there is in the main bathroom is some dental floss and an eyedropper. The bottom shelf has a dusty bottle of cherry-flavoured cough syrup and a white plastic container. FP turns it over to read the label.  _ Cold, Cough, and Flu. _ Bingo. 

“I found some,” he says when he’s back in the bedroom, triumphantly rattling the bottle at Fred’s face. Fred only turns over sleepily in the bed. 

“Check the expiry. That stuff’s been around forever.” 

FP frowns at the tiny date. 1989. Maybe not. 

“The cough syrup isn't expired,” Fred says into the pillow. 

“I can’t just give you straight cough syrup for the flu.” FP sinks back onto the bed. “It’s bad to just drink that stuff. Let me run out and get you something.” 

“Don’t,” Fred whines. 

“You won’t even notice I’m gone.” FP runs his hands soothingly through Fred’s hair again. The tacky dampness of sweat clings to his skin. “Just rest.” 

“Take my wallet,” Fred grunts. 

“Don’t be silly.” Fp kisses him on the cheek. “Hang tight. I won’t be long.” 

* * *

There’s a mom & pop convenience store about three streets over from Fred’s. It takes FP longer to start the van than it does to drive over there. He combs the shelves until he finds a bottle marked Flu, wincing at the price of even the smallest option. No wonder his dad had always refused to buy the stuff.  

“12.68,” says the cashier when she’s rung him up. 

FP pulls his last ten dollar bill out of his wallet and fishes around in the coin pocket for the rest. He carefully stacks eight quarters and six dimes on the laminate. The cashier looks like she wants to strangle him as he turns his wallet inside out looking for the last eight cents. Old ticket stubs. A bit of string. He scrapes out a nickel and two pennies. 

“Close enough,” says the cashier exasperatedly, and hands him the bag.

Fred’s sleeping again when he gets home, his head at a crooked angle on the pillow as though he’d just dropped unconscious that way. 

“Morning,” says Fred with a yawn when FP shakes him awake. FP smiles fondly and sits down on the edge of the bed. 

“Not morning. It’s almost dinnertime. You hungry?” 

“Not even close.” 

FP twists the lid of the pill bottle and pulls out a wad of cotton, feeling absurdly proud for having done something right. He shakes two capsules into Fred’s palm. Fred grimaces. 

“I don’t really want to-” 

“I know.” FP strokes his face, noticing how flushed he is. His skin is as prickly-hot as ever. “Do it for me.” 

Fred knocks back the pills and lets FP hold the glass of water up for him, supporting his head with his free hand. He takes four deep swallows from the glass and then chokes on it. FP quickly takes the glass away and tugs the bottom of his shirt up to wipe Fred’s mouth. 

“You’re okay?” FP pushes some of the gluey strands of hair back that are stuck to Fred’s cheeks. The sweat-stickiness is becoming unbearable. “You’re keeping the water down, at least. Do you want a shower, Freddie? You might feel better. Then you can sleep again.”

Fred presses his hot face against FP’s upper arm. “Maybe bath,” he mumbles. 

FP cracks a smile. “You want me to bathe you?” Fred’s nod is almost imperceptible, hidden shyly in his shoulder. FP wraps an arm around him and holds him steady against him. 

“No funny business,” Fred warns him. 

“No funny business,” FP promises, and Fred smirks. 

“Okay, there can be some funny business. But not too much.” 

* * *

FP brings a change of clothes into the bathroom with them, setting them down on the closed tank of the toilet. Fred sits quietly on the bathmat in his underwear and socks while FP runs the water, his head resting back against the cabinet under the sink. 

“Test.” FP takes Fred’s hand in his and gently guides it into the bathtub until his fingers skim the surface. Fred winces. “Too cold.”

“It’s gotta be a little cold, or it won’t take your fever down,” says FP. He runs the hot tap for a little while, and then puts his palm out. Fred’s hand slips neatly into it. “Test.” 

Fred lets him dunk his whole hand in that time, so FP figures it’s as good as he’s going to get. He looks away as Fred peels his socks off and shimmies his sweat-damp underwear down his hips. FP holds his hand tight as he steps into the water. 

“Feels cold,” mumbles Fred, gooseflesh breaking out along his spine. Despite it, his cheeks and brow are still a feverish red. FP guides him gently down to a sitting position, his knees drawn up to his chest. Fred gasps when the water hits his back. 

“Shhh,” FP soothes him, putting a steadying hand on Fred’s shoulder. Fred flinches away from his wet fingers, and FP feels a pang in his chest. He forces himself to grin. “Come on, tough guy. Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little water.” 

“Cold,” Fred repeats petulantly, but the edges of his lips are tugging up into a smile. FP wets a washcloth and passes it over his back, leaving a trail of goosebumps along Fred’s spine. He picks up a bar of soap from the edge of the tub and puts it in Fred’s open hand.

“You do this part. I’ll get your hair.”

Fred lathers the soap between his hands and rubs under his armpits and along his neck and arms. When he’s working on his legs, FP gently guides Fred’s head under the faucet, cupping one hand around the metal to cover the sharp edges. 

“Don’t drown me,” Fred mumbles as FP turns on the tap again. 

“Ssh. I won’t. Lean back.” 

He rubs his soapy hands back through Fred’s hair, working the shampoo into his shoulder-length tangles. Fred’s shoulders loosen as he does it, and FP smiles despite himself at the tired, peaceful look on his face. He keeps one hand cupped carefully over Fred’s brow to keep the water from running in his eyes. His knuckles keep scraping the bottom of the faucet when Fred moves his head, but it’s all right. Better than Fred cutting his head open on the tap. 

Fred’s neck starts lolling backward as FP’s rinsing his hair, and FP quickly cups the back of his neck with the hand not holding his forehead. “Almost done,” he urges him, leaning further against the damp edge of the tub. “Then we go back to bed.” 

When Fred’s hair is clean he guides him back up into a sitting position, letting him rest his cheek against the damp tile wall. Fred’s starting to shiver, and FP rummages under the sink for the thermometer he knows the Andrews keep there. Wiping it dubiously clean on his damp shirt, he guides Fred’s chin up with his free hand. 

“Open,” he coos, and Fred trustingly opens his mouth wide. FP nudges the glass thermometer under his tongue, stroking his wet hair steadily with the other hand. He keeps an eye on the round clock above the toilet. When a minute has passed, he pulls it out and squints at the mercury reading. 

“Look,” he says proudly, showing Fred the thermometer, which reads 101.8. “Not so bad.” 

Fred groans, and his wet head slides a bit against the wall. “Yeah, you’re a regular Florence Nightingale. Doesn’t change the fact we missed basketball tryouts.” 

“Don’t worry about that.” FP stands into a crouch and rests his hands under Fred’s armpits. “I’ll get us a spot on that team come Monday if it’s the last thing I do. Now help me out. I have a towel for you right here.” 

With minimal splashing, they manage to get Fred to his feet and out of the tub. He looks surprised when FP presents him with a clean pair of underwear and a shirt. 

“Maybe you are good at this,” Fred admits, stepping into the boxers and pulling the sleeveless shirt on over his head. It’s one that used to be FP’s. “But you forgot my socks.” 

“I’ll put your socks on upstairs,” FP promises. Fred takes a step forward and totters a bit, his face going pale. FP’s mind suddenly floods with a vision of Fred toppling forward and breaking his nose on the tile. He reaches out quickly to steady him. 

“Carry me,” begs Fred, going loose and limp against FP’s chest. 

FP grumbles. “Why do I have the feeling this is the funny business you were talking about?” 

He scoops him up bridal-style anyway. When he finally lays him down on his bed, Fred’s asleep before his head hits the pillow. 

FP carefully pulls a pair of thick woolen socks on his feet anyways. 

* * *

He’s rinsing out Fred’s garbage can at the side of the Andrews house for the second time when he hears a car pull into the drive. FP straightens up and peers around the corner of the brick. The car’s headlights combined with the street lamps illuminate the street enough to see who’s getting out. As he watches, Mrs. Andrews helps Artie out of the car and opens a wheelchair for him. FP feels suddenly guilty for hiding, and steps forward into the light, holding the bucket loosely in one hand. 

“FP?” Mrs. Andrews blinks surprisedly at him. “What are you doing here?” 

“Fred wasn’t feeling good,” FP explains. “He passed out at school earlier. I think he’s got the flu.” He avoids Artie’s eyes. Even diminished, sitting in a wheelchair, Artie makes him feel smaller. He doesn’t want Fred’s dad to think he was here for a party like Hermione had wanted. “I’ve been hanging around until he feels better.” 

But Mrs. Andrews doesn’t bat an eye. “Prudence said that was going around,” she fusses, putting a hand quickly on FP’s forehead. “FP, sweetheart, you shouldn’t have. You’ll be coming down with it too.” 

“It’s not a big deal.” 

“Is he throwing up?” she asks, her eye landing on the tell-tale bin in FP’s hands. FP doesn’t have time to confirm before she’s sprinting up the stairs to the porch and through the front door. That leaves FP and Artie alone together. Artie frowns, making tired furrows appear in his forehead. He starts wheeling himself toward the front door. 

“I can help,” offers FP awkwardly when Artie reaches the bottom of the stairs. Artie shakes his head at him. 

“No, really. I’ll just stay behind you to make sure you don’t fall.” 

In another life, Artie probably would have snapped at him for the implication that he couldn’t make it himself. This time, though, he seems to sense the sincerity of FP’s words. He smiles, and for the smallest moment, FP sees a flicker of Fred in Artie’s face. 

“If you want,” Artie concedes at last, using FP’s shoulder to rise from the wheelchair. FP follows Artie carefully up the stairs the way he’d got Fred to his bedroom, gently supporting him from behind. It’s a lot easier with only three stairs to climb. 

“I bet Fred and I could build a ramp,” FP says, keeping his tone light. “It wouldn’t be too hard.” 

“No thanks,” grunts Artie. “He’s already offered. I like my porch the way it is.” 

He holds onto the porch rail with one hand as FP hurries down the stairs to fetch his wheelchair for him, helping him get settled in it before pushing him through the door. Artie wheels himself easily into the living room. Fred’s on the stairs, being fussed over by his mother. 

“We don’t even have medicine,” FP can hear her saying. 

“FP bought some.” 

“FP-” Mrs. Andrews reaches out and wraps him in a quick hug. “You’re my son’s guardian angel, aren’t you?” 

“FP have you had anything to eat?” Artie asks. “We haven’t had dinner yet.” 

“Let me help,” FP offers, looking quickly to Mrs. Andrews. “I can set the table.” 

Thirty minutes later, he’s sitting down to a dish of spaghetti and meatballs with the rest of the Andrews family. Fred has a bowl of chicken noodle soup and some dry crackers. Mrs. Andrews had whipped up some kind of salad in a green plastic bowl, and spoons some onto FP’s plate without asking. She offers him some grated cheese for the top, and butters him a thick loaf of bread. FP’s mouth waters. 

“Sorry about such a quick meal,” Mrs. Andrews is apologizing, passing another slice of bread to Artie. “We didn’t think to stop at the grocery store on the way home.” 

FP laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not picky.” 

They eat in a warm, familiar silence, and FP can’t help feeling oddly secure in the quiet. As though he’s slipped imperceptibly into the family. His stomach feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the hot food.  

“How were basketball tryouts?” Artie asks FP. 

“We missed them,” Fred interrupts with a groan, resting his head tiredly on one hand. He’s finished most of his soup, and is idly stirring the remaining broth. “My fault.”

“We’re going to do them next week,” FP says, reaching out and placing a hand on Fred’s shoulder. “Hopefully.” 

“I’ll call Coach Marren,” says Artie purposefully, wheeling back from the table. “He knows me. I’ll talk to him.” 

“Mom?” asks Fred softly when Artie’s out of the room, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Why are you home so early?” 

“Oh, it’s good news, sweetheart.” His mother reaches out and takes his hand in hers, rubbing the back of his hand soothingly with her thumb. “Your dad took well to the treatments. We didn’t have to go in for the last one.” 

Fred smiles shakily, and FP places his foot carefully over Fred’s under the table. Mrs. Andrews turns to FP. 

“FP, you tell us if you’re feeling sick, okay?” She smoothes Fred’s damp hair out with one hand as she talks. “I won’t have you back in that trailer park if you’re not feeling well. You can stay in the guest room.” 

“I’ve already exposed him,” says Fred, grinning with all his teeth. “He can bunk with me.” 

Mrs. Andrews tuts and tugs gently on the ends of Fred’s hair. “I want you two in bed early tonight, then. Poor thing. We’re going to have to quarantine the place” 

“Why don’t we go to bed now?” asks Fred nonchalantly, slowly pressing down so hard into FP’s foot that it hurts.

* * *

“Sorry if they ruined our privacy,” Fred whispers to FP as they climb the last flight of stairs to his bedroom. 

“They didn’t ruin anything,” FP whispers in reply, keeping a hand pressed to Fred’s lower back in case he goes toppling backward. “They’re happy you’re okay.” 

“I bet my dad’s reading Coach Marren the riot act,” Fred laughs, taking three steps into the room and falling flat on his bed again. FP picks up his feet and swings them onto the mattress. “Grab some of my clothes if you want pyjamas,” Fred offers. “Or sleep nude. Whatever.” 

“If mine are off, yours are off,” FP teases, sitting down and tugging at Fred’s waistband. 

“No funny business.” 

“Never,” promises FP, brushing a loose lock of hair out of Fred’s eyes and leaning forward to kiss him on the corner of the mouth. Fred hooks his arms around his neck and presses FP’s forehead to his own. “Not a chance.” 


End file.
